


I Still Find You Lovely

by angelichl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, But also, Clubbing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, Fashion Designer Harry, Fate & Destiny, Football Player Louis, I apologize in advance, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, This is really just, Versatile Harry, ok soooo, they kind of share that really, versatile louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelichl/pseuds/angelichl
Summary: Reason #37 - Because They Have Air-Conditioning and You Don'tThe more he thinks about it, the more he can imagine himself in some bloke’s bed, sweat-free and soaking up the air-conditioning, maybe even curled up under the duvet because he's actually a littlecold.The prospect of a reprieve from the heat is even more alluring than the prospect of getting laid. Which may or may not be saying a lot.“That’s… actually not a bad idea…”In which Harry goes to a bar in search of a bloke with an air-conditioned flat.





	I Still Find You Lovely

**Author's Note:**

> As usual please do not violate privacy and trust by sharing this with anyone related to the people mentioned in this work of fiction.
> 
> The title is from a love note written on the back of a Whole Foods receipt.
> 
> This is for B, and her love of sappiness.

 

 

 

 

_I've loved you from the beginning of the world._  
_Before you and I were born, the love was always there_  
_that brought us together._

\- T.S. Eliot, "The Elder Statesman"

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART I. _

 

 

 

Harry has never been so hot in his life.

 

He thinks this now, as he lays on the kitchen tiles of his flat in the sweltering heat, completely naked. There’s sweat clinging to his back, so as he heaves out an elongated exhale it lubricates his movement and he slides on the kitchen floor. The sweat isn’t just on his back, either—it’s covering his chest too, pooling on his sternum, his collarbones, and dripping down his face. His hair is wet enough, and salty enough, to pretend he’s spent the day in the sea.

 

If the sea is thirty-four degrees and rising, that is.

 

With a creak and a clang, the door to Harry’s flat opens to indicate his flatmate’s arrival. Harry doesn’t move, just lays there like a starfish on the kitchen floor, limbs spread so as to increase the surface area of skin to tile. No regard for any sort of decency. Surely it’s too hot to be shy about something as trivial as nudity.

 

“Jesus Christ! Harold!” A shriek comes from the entryway of the kitchen, and Harry glances up in time to watch as Niall throws his hands over his eyes in exasperation. “Put some clothes on!”

 

Harry’s only response is to groan, lifting his arm just enough to cover his face with the crease of his elbow. “It’s tooooo hotttttttttt.”

 

Niall jabs a kick to Harry’s hip, gentle enough to not do any damage, yet forceful enough to slide Harry a few inches to the left, with the help of Harry’s sweat-lubrication. The action only serves to spur on Harry’s groaning and whining.

 

“No temperature will ever justify me seeing your pasty arse,” Niall calls, already out of the kitchen and halfway down the hall to his bedroom or something. “On the kitchen floor no less!” Then he mutters something about Harry being a _crazy nudist_ before his words are fully muffled by the distance between them.

 

Whatever.

 

It’s hot. So hot. Like, hot hot. Thirty-four degrees hot, outside at least. Inside the flat it must be _at least_ thirty-seven. It’s _sweltering_ and it’s been like this all week—some June heatwave hitting London from Hell or something like that.

 

It wouldn’t be much of a problem if they had air conditioning.

 

Except. They don’t.

 

“Niaaaaaaaaall-“

 

“Urgh, shut up!”

 

The thing about London is that every single building has been engineered to _retain_ heat, which is useful in the winter, except it’s _not_ winter, it’s June and the weather is being fucky and it’s _hot_ , it’s so _hot_ , and Harry is _melting_ , right into a puddle on the grey kitchen tiles, and he feels like he’s going to die, and he can’t remember what winter feels like, and he thinks it’ll _never_ cool down outside ever again, this is the end of winter forever, it’s just going to be summer and hot and _thirty-four degrees_ until the day he _dies_ , and _he’s probably going to die right now from heat stroke_.

 

There’s another kick to his side. This one is much more aggressive.

 

“Get up, buddy.”

 

“I’m dyinggggg,” Harry moans, arm still covering his eyes, perspiration still pooling on the floor below his back.

 

“You’re such a drama queen. C’mon Harry, get dressed! We’re going out, remember?”

 

He peels his arm from his face long enough to peer up at the figure towering over him. “Huh?”

 

“It’s Friday night, in case you’ve forgotten, and we have plans to go to the pub.”

 

Oh. Harry totally forgot about that. Whoops. Harry really hasn’t been paying attention to much, since he’s been so busy with work. He considers it for a moment. And then-

 

“Noooooooo, Niall, it’s too hot!”

 

“I don’t care. Think about it, if you pull tonight you can go home with a lad who might have A.C. Problem solved.”

 

No, Harry is absolutely not going out tonight.

 

Except. Huh.

 

He has a point. The more he thinks about it, the more he can imagine himself in some bloke’s bed, sweat-free and soaking up the air-conditioning, probably curled up under the duvet because he might even be a little _chilled_. The prospect of a reprieve from the heat is even more alluring than the prospect of getting laid. Which may or may not be saying a lot.

 

“That’s… actually not a bad idea…”

 

Niall taps his forehead with his index finger, smirking like he knows everything. Sometimes he does. “Mhmm. Now get in the shower, you complete wanker. We’re meeting Liam soon and we’re gonna be late.”

 

Motivated by the promise of air conditioning and sex, Harry manages to find the will to peel himself from the kitchen floor and shuffle away to the tiny bathroom. He kicks the shower on and hops in without any hesitation, since he’s already bum-naked and there’s no need to wait for the water to warm up. In fact, he wants it cold as ice.

 

His shower is quick and refreshing, although he has a bit of a slow-down when he’s washing his chest with a loofa and his favorite eucalyptus-scented body wash. The distraction is caused by the two swallows on his chest. From this angle, he notices for the first time, his tattoos kinda look like sloths. Huh. He stares at them for way too long before rinsing the soap away and finishing the deep condition (lavender-rose-scented) on his hair. He has a quick wank—though a good one, as he has to lean against the wall for a moment until the stars in his vision clear—and then turns the water off. He steps out of the shower, towels off, and exits the bathroom completely naked yet again. Partly for convenience but mostly to piss of Niall.

 

Getting dressed is a difficult, uncomfortable task. That flat is still boiling like a pot of water on the stove, and Harry has to move petulantly slowly in an effort not to break a sweat. (It doesn’t work, but he hopes his deodorant and cologne are strong enough that it isn’t a problem.)

 

He does his hair first, in front of the wide mirror in his bedroom, toweling it off and then blowing it dry with the setting on _cool_. Even on the lowest heat setting the warm air directly blown to his head makes him want to die. Regardless, there’s no way he’s going out with his hair flat and ugly—not when he’s really trying to pull. Beauty is worth the suffering, and he’s hoping to go home with someone tonight.

 

After his hair is reasonably tousled (reasonable to his standards, at least, and it dries much faster now—one of the benefits to his relatively new and very drastic haircut) he moisturizes his face, then waits patiently to let it dry.

 

During the interim he considers wearing lingerie for a quick, fleeting moment, then decides against it. Probably not a good idea to share his kinks with a one-night-stand, and while he might risk it on a different night, tonight is not that night. He really needs things to go well if he wants to sleep in an air-conditioned building instead of his own flat. Plus, even the least-itchy lingerie he owns would be very uncomfortable in the hellish heat. He shudders at the thought.

 

So he forces himself into his tightest pair of skinny jeans for the sake of making his butt look especially good. Usually on a night as hot as tonight, he would opt for cargo shorts or something equally appalling, but he really, really needs to pull tonight and he’s not willing to risk the opportunity of A.C. for the sake of wearing jorts.

 

While searching for a top to wear, he gets distracted by his makeup bag, burrowed deep in the back of his closet beneath a thick stack of his soft winter jumpers. He pulls it out, curiously digging through the tubes of mascara and palettes of eye shadow. When his fingers land on the gold case of his favorite highlighter, he turns it in his hand for a long moment, contemplating.

_Why the fuck not_ is his eventual consensus.

 

Harry and Niall leave the flat together ten minutes later, (Harry finally electing a loose, black, short-sleeved button-down, with his chest out and only two buttons actually done up), with their shades on, and confidence in their steps. Niall is yapping away about golf again and Harry listens as intently as he can, although he zones out for a little and finds himself thinking about the night’s prospects.

 

His cheekbones are sparkling in the setting summer sunlight, pretty and shimmery just like Harry.

 

If things go well he won’t be back until the heat wave passes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_PART II._

 

 

 

 

The pub is uncomfortably crowded, and although it’s normal for a Friday night in June that doesn’t make Harry any less claustrophobic. People are everywhere, every seat taken and people sharing seats even, scooted close together or sitting on others’ laps. A mass of people surround the bar, the bartenders running around to serve drinks and working in a way that’s almost graceful like a dance, despite the heavy chaos. Every booth is full of groups of friends squished together and laughing and talking loudly, every table overflowing with glasses both full of alcohol and glaringly empty of it as well. A live band is playing on the cramped stage at the back, and there’s a large makeshift dance floor in front of it brimming with people dancing every dance under the sun, from casual toe-bouncing to full-out grinding.

 

Vaguely, Harry wonders if Niall would ever join a band like the one on stage right now. Niall plays solo at bars like this when he wants the extra money, but Harry thinks he would be good in a band. He has that certain quality about him, that charisma mixed with goofiness mixed with something even rarer that doesn’t have a name but is certainly there, inside Niall.

 

“Oi, there’s Liam!”

 

Niall’s voice shouting over the loud ambience pulls Harry out of his wandering thoughts and into the immediate present. He follows Niall’s finger to the booth he’s pointing at, where Liam and his friends are talking excitedly, tall glasses of beer in their hands. They head over and slide into the booth.

 

There isn’t much room, and Harry’s bum is only halfway on the bench. So Niall wraps his arm around Harry’s waist to tug him close, supporting him so he doesn’t fall.

 

One of the girls orders another round for the table, and soon they’re drowning themselves in cheap beer that tastes like summer. It bubbles in Harry’s stomach, making him feel warm almost immediately. He doesn’t drink that often so he knows he needs to take it easy or else he’ll be severely hungover.

 

He zones out of the conversation about football and gazes around the table, blatantly sizing people up before deciding there’s no one he would like to take home (the term “take home” being metaphorical; Harry hopes to score at their place). He’s too familiar with most of them, and the chances of seeing them again are grand. He doesn’t do this often and he isn’t sure exactly how it works but he wants to do it right, wants to have a fun night and then never see the person again.

 

So he starts at the dance floor—the best place to pull. As he approaches the crowded area he browses around and searches for a bloke dancing without a partner.

 

He finds someone quickly: a guy with strangely dark hair and his hand clasped around the neck of a nearly empty Corona bottle, heading away from the dancing. Harry intercepts him before he can get too far away and prays he’s into guys.

 

“Hey,” he tries, placing his hand lightly on the man’s wrist to get his attention. “Wanna dance with me?”

 

The guy is big, tall, a little frightening. Not exactly Harry’s type but Harry is willing to explore a little, especially since there’s something distinctly sexy about him. Maybe the scent that’s flowing off of him, like earthy cologne. Or maybe his size, how he’s towering over Harry easily. There’s something alluring about that, about being in the presence of someone so brooding and powerful. Harry thinks he likes that. Thinks he likes that a lot.

 

The man must, in turn, see something in Harry as well. Harry wonders if it’s the highlighter dusting his cheekbones that draws the man in. Whatever it is, in a moment large hands are wrapping around Harry’s wrists and leading him to the center of the crowd. There, they dance together, Harry’s back pressed up against the man’s front, arms wrapped around him, all-encompassing. He feels small, which is something he doesn’t feel very often because he’s gotten kind of tall. It’s a nice feeling.

 

Things get heated quickly. Sooner than expected, they’re both ready to get out of there, hail a cab and kiss in the backseat.

 

“Mine or yours?” The man asks, and Harry still doesn’t know his name but he figures he’ll be able to find out later. His hands are on Harry’s hips, cool fingertips sliding along the smooth skin below his loose button-up.

 

“Yours. You have air conditioning?”

 

He looks at him weirdly, caught off-guard enough to speak in honesty. “No; it broke this morning.”

 

Uh-oh. And Harry really likes him too!

 

Harry grimaces, pulling away and feeling like the biggest dick in the world. He kind of really is. “I’m sorry,” he exclaims worriedly, keeping a good distance between them and searching with his peripheral vision for an exit or a way to slip away. He rambles out the worst explanation in the universe, stumbling through another handful of apologies, then pats the guy’s shoulder and scurries away. He prays to God the guy will understand and hopefully decide not to come after Harry. He nearly runs back to the safety of his friends, self-loathing sinking in the pit of his stomach.

 

God, he’s the worst. The absolute worst. Turning down an attractive bloke just because his place doesn’t have air conditioning. That’s a new low for Harry. He feels bad about it. Thinks about finding him again to apologize some more, maybe offer to take him out for drinks another time when it isn’t so bloody hot outside. (Then he thinks better of it. If he goes back he’ll probably get punched in the face.)

 

“No luck?” One of the girls asks, the only one to notice Harry’s arrival at the table. Niall is gone and so are a few of the others, although Liam is there in the corner of the booth with an unfamiliar guy leaning into him. He looks like a prince. Harry blushes and looks away when they share a deep kiss. (More like a snog.)

 

“No luck,” he confirms, taking the glass the girl offers. They drink together for a while, talking and laughing about a million different topics and jumping into the main conversation at the table when the subject matter interests them. Most of the time it doesn’t, however, so they enjoy their own conversation together.

 

Only two beers later and he’s already feeling a bit dizzy because he rarely ever drinks, and the alcohol in his glass is swirling uncharacteristically when he gazes down at it. When he looks up again, he sees that Niall has rejoined them, now on the other side of the table, cheeks significantly brighter and hair significantly more tousled than before he left. Niall is the kind of guy to make friends with everyone at the bar immediately and without fail. Everybody loves him.

 

Something nudges his foot. He registers it as Niall. “What?” He asks, some of his hair somehow finding a way to fall onto his forehead. He brushes a stubborn curl away and wipes his sweat on his jeans.

 

Offhandedly and with a casual tip of his head, Niall informs, “That bloke over there’s been staring at you.”

 

Harry’s head snaps up. “What?”

 

The girl beside him—Naiya is her name—pulls her long black hair over her shoulder and nods in agreement. “He’s been staring for a while, I noticed ten minutes ago.”

 

“Huh.” Harry peers up, attempting to be inconspicuous and blushing when it fails. Immediately he knows Naiya and Niall are talking about _him_. The guy meets his eyes and smiles a little, lips quirking at the corners. Or maybe it’s a smirk? Holy fuck. The only word running through his mind is four letters long, in all caps and big, bold font: CUTE. Shit. Like, cute cute. Adorable.

 

Harry looks down at the table quickly. He attempts to do an inventory of the man’s appearance in his mind, because the second-long glance wasn’t enough to fully survey him. What he remembers is this: tan skin, and pretty brown fringe falling down I front of his eyes. And the cutest nose. Huh.

 

“You should talk to him,” Naiya encourages, smiling persuasively. “Look, he’s said something funny and all his friends are laughing. Niall says you like a good sense of humor, right?”

 

Harry narrows his eyes. “Nialler, why the fuck are you telling the world my preferences for pulls?”

 

“A good sense of humor is more than pull material, Haz, it’s _boyfriend_ material, and you know it.” A non-answer, but true nonetheless.

 

Harry is about to respond, but then Naiya is urgently pressing her knuckles into his side and whispering, “look cute! He’s looking!”

 

Oh god. He takes a sip of his drink.

 

Judging by Niall’s spluttering laughter from across the table, it’s not as sexy as he hopes.

 

He sees the man laughing again. At him? No, can’t be. Harry’s just being overly self-conscious. Right?

 

The man waves, laughter still bubbling out of him. Harry waves back sheepishly and then ducks his head in embarrassment.

 

“Oh fuck,” Harry breathes when he sees Louis turning away from his friends. And. Walking towards the table Harry is sitting at.

 

Who is he? Honestly. Who has the confidence to approach someone when they’re sitting at a table with all of their friends? Jesus Christ. Harry thinks he might pass out.

 

But. Maybe he has air conditioning?

 

The thought alone is enough to get him to lift his head. Naiya and Niall are laughing beside him—at him—but he really can’t focus on them right now when a very attractive, very cute bloke is walking towards him.

 

Now unabashedly staring, Harry catalogues the rest of his appearance. He’s short, tiny, and kind of fragile just in the way that he’s small. His hair is fluffy and soft-looking and falling prettily in front of his eyes and Harry is envious because it seems to be that the heavy humidity is having no affect on this bloke’s hair and that just isn’t fair. His skin is tan even this early in the summer and his eyes are pale.

 

“Hey. Can I buy you a drink?”

 

And. Woah. His voice is unexpectedly light and wispy, beautiful and unique.

 

(Maybe this guy could join Niall’s future band?)

 

“Yes please.” Harry stands up from the booth and he accidentally jostles the table, making a ruckus and causing an empty glass to fall over. What can he say? He’s clumsy. Harry swears, apologizes, and sets the glass upright before looking over to see that this stranger has joined the group of people (Niall and Naiya) laughing him.

 

He tries not to blush but it happens anyways.

 

It’s pretty much too loud to talk at all, so the stranger wordlessly takes his hand and drags him through the crowd up to the bar. Harry follows blindly behind, glad he isn’t the one who has to navigate through the difficult sea of people. Glad he has someone else to guide him through. He thinks there’s a metaphor to find in there, but he’s too distracted to delve any further into it.

 

“I’m Louis, by the way.”

 

“Harry,” he shouts over the music and the crowd. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, trying to figure out when the best time would be to ask about air conditioning. From the two minutes he’s seen him he decides he really likes this guy, really hopes he has A.C. because he thinks they could have a lot of fun together. Thinks that maybe it doesn’t even matter if he has an air conditioned flat or not. Thinks he might go home with him no matter what.

 

“What’re you drinking?”

 

Harry’s blush brightens, and he feels actual tangible heat flow to the surface of his skin. “Cosmos.” Jesus, why is he so embarrassed? He never gets this embarrassed over anything. It isn’t his fault he likes such a pretty pink drink, and honestly he thinks it’s crazy that men don’t usually drink them because they’re damn good. And strong.

 

Louis laughs a little and squeezes his hand. “Very cute.” And then when it’s their turn in line, he orders two cosmos. The bartender doesn’t even bat a lash, just fills their order like it’s normal, no big deal, whatever, doesn’t care and probably doesn’t even notice. And then Harry thinks that maybe he needs someone like Louis in his life, someone to break Harry out of his shell, someone to do things so unashamedly that Harry has no choice but to follow.

 

“So, Harold-“

 

“ _Doyouhaveairconditioning_?” Harry blurts out, completely interrupting Louis, and his question comes out a little breathy and a little desperate. Then he smacks his hand over his mouth because he hadn’t meant to ask at all and now he looks like a flaming idiot.

 

Louis scrunches up his face. “Did you just ask if I have air conditioning?”

 

“No. I mean, um, I did, but- I, um-“

 

“Well I do, so. Is that the deal-breaker?” He’s looking up at Harry through his eyelashes. Which is, like, the most obvious tactic in the book. But. That doesn’t mean he’s immune to it.

 

Is this flirting, Harry wonders? If it is it’s very strange. He struggles to find something to say that will make him look like less of a dick. So he has nothing to do but breathe the truth, hoping to smooth things over. “Oh thank god,” he sighs, smiling freely now. Time to take a risk. So he tacks on, “But for the record I would go home with you anyway.”

 

Louis raises his eyebrows, slightly shaken by Harry’s forwardness possibly? No, he’s definitely not shaken, but the comment was pretty unexpected nonetheless. Harry thinks that nothing could shake Louis, in the way that he’s so comfortable and confident.

 

“Oh really, thinking ahead are we?”

 

Harry prays he hasn’t offended him. It’s why people buy each other drinks anyways, isn’t it? For sex? Okay, maybe that’s a messed-up line of thinking that will get him in trouble somewhere down the line, but for now Harry’s forwardness seems to be working.

 

“Let’s go dance,” Harry suggests, taking a sip of his cosmo and resisting the urge to down the entire thing. He needs to slow down if he has any hopes of even being awake to enjoy the air-conditioning. A few more drinks and he might pass out before they even leave the bar.

 

Louis follows him out to the crowd, and once they’re in a good spot near the center but where they have some room they stop walking. Harry shimmies and moves his shoulders ridiculously, hoping to make Louis laugh. (It works.)

 

Together they dance like drunken idiots (even though Harry is only tipsy at most) and sip their cosmos when they’re not spilling them. When Harry gets tired of flailing around like an idiot he wraps his arms around Louis’ neck, fingertips loosely clinging to his nearly empty glass, and sways with him. Of course that’s when the band decides to play a sexier song, and Harry grinds his hips a little, jokingly. Louis laughs and matches his movement, grinding against Harry’s thigh.

 

Harry allows his hands to travel down to Louis’ hips, holding on and squeezing gently as Louis continues to grind on his leg. It’s teasing and joking but even still it’s so, so sexy—so unbelievably undeniably sexy—that Harry gets insanely turned on even though they’re both laughing hysterically.

 

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and sinks in so there’s hardly any space between them before he lifts his chin up to meet Harry’s eyes.

 

It’s most definitely an invitation, and all Harry has to do is lean down until their lips meet. They press their faces together, close-lipped and smiling uncontrollably. Harry leans back to admire Louis’ face in the darkness of the club and the erratic flashing lights, taking in his soft skin and pretty eyelashes. And his big eyes which stare up at Harry, daring. Louis steps up on his toes, hands on Harry’s shoulders, and presses their lips together again.

 

The innocent kiss quickly turns into a heated, full-out snogging session, despite the fact that every time they pull away to breathe they end up laughing. Harry dives in again, shoving his tongue in Louis’ mouth and kissing him senseless. (Harry is feeling a little dizzy himself.) Their kiss is measured in the number of songs they miss while they’re wrapped up in each other, and it’s wanting and needing, desperate in the way that neither of them could stop even if they tried.

 

Harry breaks away for an elongated moment to trail kisses down Louis’ jaw, followed by his neck. He pauses at each junction to suck hickeys onto his smooth, tan skin, lapping over each of them with his tongue and running his teeth over the marks gently. The bruises decorate his skin prettily like a hand-woven pattern made of silk.

 

As Harry works on his collarbones, Louis gently tugs on Harry’s hair. Harry likes the feeling, likes it a lot actually, so he moans a little to encourage Louis and to show him that hair-pulling is a _thing_ for him.

 

Louis’ smile widens. “You like that, of course you do.” He tugs on Harry’s hair again, experimenting. Harry mewls happily in response. “You’re a sweetheart,” he laughs, carding his fingers through Harry’s hair again and again and again. Harry could get lost in the feeling, could stay like this forever and ever. “Wanna get out of here baby?”

 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Harry chants, breathy and excited, hugging Louis closer and burying his face in his lovebite-laden neck. It’s warm here, and a little bit sweaty, and a little bit dreamy. Comforting.

 

“Alright, go tell your friends you’re leaving and we’ll meet outside okay?”

 

It sounds like a plan, so they split up reluctantly and Harry rushes back to the table. Naiya is still sat there with a few other girls and Liam is still sitting nice and cozy with the mysterious, intimidating bloke from earlier. Niall isn’t anywhere to be seen but Harry assumes he’s getting smashed at the bar, or walking around offering to buy strangers drinks (the best way to make new friends).

 

“Well don’t you look fucked out,” Naiya teases, and everyone at the table who isn’t caught up in drinking or snogging laughs and agrees.

 

“Not yet,” Harry mumbles, attempting to be brazen and yet still fighting the blush that rises to his cheeks despite his greatest efforts. He’s sporting a very noticeable hard-on in addition to very snog-tousled hair. Not obvious at all or anything. “But I’m leaving now, so.”

 

They tease him some more and tell him to have fun, smacking his bum on the way out. Harry practically runs out of the bar and onto the sidewalk, weaving in and out of people as he searches for Louis. For a moment he thinks he won’t be there, thinks he made up the excuse of saying bye to friends just to give himself an opportunity to run, but then he finally spots him leaning against the brick wall a ways down, lighting a cigarette, and the plummeting in his heart stops abruptly. Harry nearly skips over to him.

 

“Hey.”

 

Harry leans in really close, staring at Louis and smiling widely. “Hey.”

 

“You ready?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Sick. You don’t mind walking, do you? I’m not drunk enough to call a cab.”

 

“Fine with me,” Harry breathes happily, and together they walk all the way back to Louis’ flat. Their hands are entangled and swinging between them the entire way there as they pass the cigarette back and forth. They talk a little, getting to know each other, and remind each other of their names because as it turns out they’ve both forgotten already.

 

“Louis,” Harry repeats, smiling and leaning down to kiss him on the cheek.

 

“Harry,” Louis echoes in the same endeared tone of voice. They stupidly say their names back to each other all the way up the stairs and even while Louis twists his key into the lock. They both sigh in relief when the door wings open and they enter the flat.

 

Stepping inside is strange because it slightly sobers Harry up, enough for him to know that he isn’t very drunk at all and just giddy and excited. The effect of the air conditioning on him is immediate, and he kicks of his shoes after Louis, extremely content in the cool air.

 

Louis flips on the light switch and asks, teasingly, “want me to crank up the A.C.?”

 

“Actually yes please. I gotta take advantage of it while I can.”

 

Louis laughs all the way over to the thermostat, jabbing the down button until they hear the fans kick on. “You only want me for my air conditioning,” he cries, dramatically spinning around and capturing Harry in a kiss. Harry backs up against the wall and allows Louis to have his way with him. There are lots of messy kisses, enthusiastic grinding, and noisy moaning.

 

“Bed-“ moan, “-room?”

 

“Okay,” Louis mumbles, breathless.

 

“Carry me?”

 

“Harry, you’re gigantic.”

 

“Please?” He hops up and latches his legs around Louis’ waist, bouncing a little to tease him and laughing when Louis groans. He sets his hands on Harry’s ass and squeezes, pulling him away from the wall.

 

“You have a very cute bum.”

 

Harry’s heart flutters stupidly. “You have a very cute face.”

 

They kiss all the way to the bedroom, Louis tripping over the carpet and slamming Harry against the wall only once before they finally make it to the bed. Louis drops Harry on the mattress and crawls on top of him, apologizing for running into the wall.

 

As Harry sucks on his neck, Louis asks, “top, bottom, or versatile?”

 

He unlatches his lips long enough to respond. “Verse.”

 

“Oh sick, mate, same!” Louis holds out his hand for a high-five and Harry meets his hand with a laugh. “Any preference though?”

 

“I’d like for you to top me. If you want.”

 

A wicked smile. “Sounds like fun.”

 

Harry quirks a brow. “Let’s get to it then.”

 

“Eager, aren’t you?” Louis banters, lifting Harry’s shirt up to kiss on his stomach. Harry flexes for Louis’ benefit, and Louis kisses and licks up and down his abs. He takes his time sucking on his skin to leave pretty colored bruises trailing from his collarbones to the line of his jeans.

 

“You have a very nice tummy, Harry.”

 

“Thanks. Wanna take off your clothes?”

 

“I want you to watch.”

 

“Hurry up then, let’s go.”

 

“Alright, alright.” Louis leans back and peels off his shirt slowly, grabbing from the bottom and crossing his arms in an X before lifting it off.

 

“Strip, baby, strip!” Harry cheers him on enthusiastically. So Louis stands up from the bed to sway his hips to a slow and invisible beat until they’re both laughing so hard Louis nearly falls over. He pulls of his jeans as sexily as he can while laughing uncontrollably, flinging them behind his shoulder (and he hears a crash but doesn’t look back to see whatever it is he just broke). He inches his boxers off ceremoniously and then sits on the edge of the bed. “Your turn, Harold.”

 

“Do it for me?”

 

Louis crawls forward and pushes him down, working his fingers on the buttons and popping them open expertly. He peels off Harry’s black shirt and tosses it to the side. Then he unbuttons his jeans, gently palming Harry’s crotch for a very succinct moment, and all the joking and laughter dries up as they stare at each other with wide eyes. Harry looks like the breath has been punched out of him until he lets out a soft moan, his eyelashes fluttering closed. Louis retracts his hand, unable to contain the smug smirk that overtakes his features.

 

“Flip over,” Louis orders quietly, helping Harry over onto his stomach. Louis admires his back for a moment, strong and defined and beautiful, before hooking his fingertips on the waistband of Harry’s jeans and tugging them over his bum. He isn’t wearing pants. “Jesus Christ, your jeans are tight,” he laughs as he struggles to pull them off.

 

This leads to a full-blown tug-of-war where Harry clings to the headboard for dear life while Louis tries his hardest to pull Harry’s jeans off. Harry is giggling as Louis utilizes all the force he can manage, yanking and tugging ridiculously. Harry helps by wiggling his legs and hips back and forth until Louis finally unhooks his jeans from his ankles and pulls them completely off.

 

“Oh thank god.” Harry eagerly flips over and gazes at Louis expectantly, both of them now completely naked. They stare at each other for a minute, their laughter dying out again.

 

“Want me to prep you, or do you wanna do it yourself?” Louis asks, leaning over Harry to reach the nightstand drawer. He digs around searching and pulls out a bottle of lube and a handful of condoms. It seems ambitious but at the same time it doesn’t seem like enough, and Harry thinks that with the night going as great as it is right now they might need to take a trip to a convenience store to buy more.

 

“You, please. But ehm… can I start myself? I just- it’s been a while, and-“

 

“Of course baby, that’s why I asked. Take your time, we’ve got all night. No rush.”

 

Harry cannot help but smile, feeling relieved. It really has been a while, and as much as he would enjoy Louis in him _right now_ , he knows he needs to take it slow in order to avoid hurting himself. So he flips open the cap and coats his fingers in lube, conscious of not making a mess on the bed, and slips his index inside very slowly. It takes some time due to the resistance but eventually he gets his finger all the way in and wiggles it around a bit to make room, seeing stars. It’s been far too long since he’s had something filling him up, even if just his own finger. He lets out a breath and begins to fuck himself slowly, ignoring the discomfort. Jesus, he really is tight.

 

Gritting his teeth, he adds his middle finger beside his index. It’s a tight fit and he has to pause to give himself time to adjust before he scissors his fingers to stretch himself.

 

“You okay, baby?”

 

“Yeah, almost ready for you,” he grits out through a tense jaw. Harry opens his eyes to see Louis sitting across from him on the bed, leaning back and playing with himself lazily. Watching Harry. They make eye contact and grin at each other. Harry thinks that he hasn’t felt this comfortable around another man in a very long time. A strange, fluttering feeling builds in his gut at the thought, making his stomach swirl. He fucks himself on his fingers a few times more and then collapses back on the bed and squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay, I’m good.”

 

“Sick. Give me a sec.” Louis crosses the distance between them until they’re both sharing the same space, the same breath. He lubes his fingers, then carefully presses one into Harry with no hesitation or teasing (for which Harry is very grateful). While it’s pleasurable, the primary purpose is to prepare him.

 

Louis fucks into Harry for a little while and then adds another finger when he thinks Harry is ready. He goes at a steady, constant pace that is neither fast nor slow, and it makes Harry’s hands shake when he reaches out to touch Louis’ collarbones. He drags his fingers along his tattoos, admiring them, and then latches his grip onto Louis’ shoulders, clinging tightly.

 

Eventually Louis begins to crook his fingers on every in-stroke and Harry cries out unintentionally, already feeling insanely weak and dizzy and fucked out. Harry counts as Louis presses his fingers against his prostrate once, twice, three times, and then holds the pressure there.

 

Harry is seeing stars, like blinding flashes of white that obscure his vision even when he closes his eyes. He thinks he might pass out, or maybe just come embarrassingly early. So he clenches his jaw but a whimper escapes anyway, and only then does Louis relent.

 

He retracts his fingers but it’s too late, because Harry is already coming all over his own stomach, his dick still completely untouched.

 

“…Holy shit.”

 

Harry pulls away to cover his face with his arms, completely embarrassed, groaning. He feels like he might cry. Jesus Christ, he just came with Louis hardly touching him in less than two minutes like a fucking sixteen-year-old virgin. “I’m so sorry-“

 

“Harry!” Louis scolds, but his voice is full of awe. “What are you doing, don’t apologize! That was—god, I don’t even know, that was just… That was the single _sexiest_ thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life. Don’t you dare apologize.”

 

“Ugggghhhhhhhhh,” Harry groans into his arms, still unable to face Louis. His cheeks are flaming and probably bright red.

 

Louis runs his hands up and down the soft skin of Harry’s thighs. “Stop being embarrassed, that was so hot.” He sighs audibly, leaning down to kiss a dry spot on Harry’s come-covered tummy. “Hang on baby, I’m gonna clean you up and then we’ll continue.”

 

He returns soon with a towel to wipe the come off of Harry’s stomach. Harry finally opens his eyes when Louis is done, still mortified and shaky from his unexpected orgasm. Louis throws the towel to the floor and dives down to kiss Harry deeply.

 

Their hands explore each other’s bodies blindly as they kiss, wandering and touching, feeling. Harry finds himself obsessed with the silkiness of Louis’ skin, the loveliness of his hips and bum, the beauty of his back muscles which strain underneath his curious fingertips.

 

“Ready?” Louis ventures when they’re rutting against each other, Harry’s dick painfully hard and desperate again.

 

He’s dizzy from the kissing and the desire but he finds it in himself to exhale, and respond, breathy and wanting, “yes, yes. How do you want me?”

 

“Whatever you want, baby.”

 

Harry has never really been one for pet names, and he had asked all his past boyfriends not to call him anything like _babe_ or _baby_ , but when Louis calls him things like that Harry just can’t resist. It makes his heart swell. “Okay.” He pulls himself up so he’s on his hands and knees in front of Louis, ready and waiting.

 

“Fuck…”

 

Behind him, Harry hears the rustle of foil, Louis opening the condom package and sliding it on. Harry thinks that this may not be the most romantic position by any standards, but he knows that it most definitely requires trust. Trust is a lot to ask from a one-night stand but he thinks that he already trusts Louis a lot. Even in just a few short hours.

 

There’s something special about him, about his gentleness, his kindness, that has calmed Harry from the very start of their very short time together. Harry hardly knows anything about love and commitment and _forever_ , and god they’re so young for _forever_ , but he thinks that maybe… maybe he and Louis can learn about all of those things together.

 

Fuck. Harry has to bite his lip to keep those embarrassing, sappy thoughts to himself. Stupid, sex-drunk thoughts. God knows what would happen if he said them out loud. The last thing he wants to do is to scare Louis away with the intensity of his desires.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Yes, _please_ , hurry up,” he whines, suddenly pulled out of his thoughts and very desperate. He rocks his hips back and forth until he feels Louis’ hands on his bum, stilling him.

 

“Relax baby, be patient.”

 

One of Louis’ hands prods at Harry’s entrance as the other thoroughly covers himself in lube. He presses his fingers against Harry’s rim teasingly before pulling his hands away, bracing himself on Harry’s hips. It is then that he finally pushes in.

 

It’s slow. Painstakingly slow, achingly slow. So slow, slow, slow… and it burns like hell because he’s so big, because Harry is so tight, because it’s been a while and Harry has been empty for too long. He’s tight, and wound up, and rigid, completely unable to relax.

 

Harry loses the breath in his lungs, squeezes his eyes shut. Even through the discomfort there’s a thin lacing of pleasure, warm and building in his tummy, so he grits his teeth and hisses as Louis bottoms out. His hips are pressed flush against Harry’s bum.

 

Louis isn’t moving. He stays there, completely still inside Harry. Allowing him to adjust, giving him time to get used to the agonizingly uncomfortable feeling of being stretched out and stuffed full. Harry is certain it would be a lot better if he just started moving, so the pain would possibly subside, and the pleasure would have a chance to overcome the discomfort.

 

Harry can’t help it—he whimpers pathetically, loud enough for Louis to hear.

 

“Move, please,” he whispers in a small voice, shifting his hips uncomfortably. Doing anything he can to ease the pain. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes but he ignores them, determined not to cry like a child. “ _Please_.”

 

Louis does, slowly at first. He pulls out to the very tip, pausing a second to lean down and kiss Harry’s spine. And then he pushes back in until Harry is filled to the brim again.

 

It’s slow, still so slow, but the pain is beginning to fade away so Harry drives his hips backwards to meet Louis’ gentle thrusts, showing that he’s very much into it and very much okay.

 

“I’m sorry baby, I know it hurts. But you’re so good for me, you’re so good for me baby. I’ll make you feel good, okay? I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

_You already are_ , Harry thinks, his vision wobbling. “Faster,” he pleads, grinding his hips and keeping his back arched. “Faster, faster, faster-“

 

Louis obliges, of course he does, probably couldn’t say no to Harry even if he wanted to, even if he tried. He pounds into him, hard and fast, and the bed is creaking. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if it breaks, and they’re both moaning obscenely and breathing heavily and Harry chants Louis’ name over and over again, a million times over until he can’t anymore.

 

He reaches out and clasps his hand on the headboard, clinging to it, knuckles turning white. If he doesn’t hold on Louis will surely drive him straight into the wall.

 

He’s halfway between seeing stars and passing out when the ecstasy builds like a crescendo, like fireworks exploding in the night sky. He’s screaming, screaming, screaming, without concern for all the people who might hear him, without concern for anything except the pleasure, the intensity of desire, the bliss of sex and love and worship, and, and, and.

 

And.

 

His orgasm smashes against him like a tidal wave, intensely powerful and downright inescapable. His toes curl. Fingers clasp. Jaw clenches. Everything tense, pulled taught. And he screams, screams, screams, breathless and fiery and unbelievably loud.

 

Louis is still pounding into him when Harry collapses forward onto the bed, exhausted and spent.

 

Louis slows his thrusts, still not coming yet but probably close to an orgasm, if Harry’s is anything to go by. He leans down and kisses Harry’s shoulders, the back of his neck, then down every bump on his spine. It’s so incredibly intimate and lovely that it makes Harry shiver even in his exhaustion.

 

Louis fully fucks Harry through his orgasm and then pulls out. He helps Harry flip over so he’s laying on his back and looking up at Louis, all pliant and fucked out.

 

Louis moves to jack off over Harry’s stomach, and in his hazy mind all that Harry thinks is _no, that won’t do_. So he languidly pulls Louis up and asks him to come on his face. Louis looks at Harry wearily but there’s really not much time for debate because Harry is already tugging on his dick and coaxing and orgasm out of him. He shoots his load all over the side of Harry’s face—his mouth, his cheek, his eyelid and lashes, and in his hair as well. Harry happily swallows what he can.

 

“Harry,” Louis breathes, reaching out to stroke his cheek, his thumb soon covered in come. Louis looks so beautiful like this, Harry thinks from below him, blue eyes bright and wide, hair messy and tousled, skin flushed and pink. “Harry… baby, that was incredible.”

 

“You’re incredible,” he mumbles as a retort, wanting nothing more than to cuddle with Louis until they fall asleep. But. He’s very much a mess and should probably at least clean himself with a towel.

 

It happens when he decides to get up and wipe off his face. He blinks, and-

 

“Ow, Jesus fuck, owwwww,” he whines, because as he blinked the come on his lashes dripped directly onto his eyeball. It’s burning like a motherfucker, so he frantically rubs at his eye to make the stinging stop.

 

It only makes it worse. He writhes around before abruptly standing up and bolting to the bathroom, Louis trailing close behind.

 

“Harry, are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?”

 

“Come. In my eye,” he groans before turning on the faucet and sticking his eye directly under the running water. The burning doesn’t go away even as he rubs and rinses.

 

He washes his eye out for as long as he can stand it, with Louis standing by his side unable to do anything to help. The cold water isn’t really doing anything, his eye still stings like a bitch, but after minutes of rinsing and repeating he turns the water off and smothers his face with a towel.

 

“Wait, honey let me see.” Louis lifts Harry’s hands from his eye and gazes into it, getting really close to him so Harry can feel his soft breath on his cheek. “It’s really red but I don’t see anything in it. You just look like you smoked a lot, and I mean _a lot_ of weed. Does it still hurt?”

 

“Ugh, it still hurts,” Harry groans, still only wanting to curl up into a ball with Louis’ arms wound around him. Stupid come in his eye ruining his plans.

 

“Anything I can do to make it better?”

 

“Nah it’s okay. I’m gonna shower though.”

 

“Want some company?” He nods towards the shower, and then tacks on, “you can say no if you want. No pressure, seriously.”

 

“Please join me,” Harry invites eagerly, setting the towel down neatly on the countertop. “Although I’m not sure I’m up for any more… activities… right now.”

 

“No sex, just a hot shower together,” Louis confirms happily. “Sounds like a plan.”

 

Harry hums, glad they’re on the same page. They take turns pissing as the water heats up, and Harry tells Louis about how he learned in his health class a million years ago that it’s important to pee after sex to avoid STD’s.

 

“Huh, didn’t know that. Thanks for the tip.”

 

Harry smiles and thinks about how glad he is that he went home with Louis. How grateful he is that Louis has air conditioning.

 

How difficult it’s going to be to leave.

 

“You’re okay with me staying until tomorrow, right?” He asks, just in case he’s been reading the signs wrong this whole entire time. He’d rather deal with the awkwardness now instead of later.

 

“Absolutely. I’m expecting a good cuddle, so.”

 

Phew. It feels nice to be justified. “Awesome. I can make you breakfast tomorrow if you want?”

 

Louis perks up at the offer. “Breakfast? Yum.”

 

They step into the shower together, closing the glass door behind them, and Harry pauses for a split second to really admire it because it truly is a very nice shower. (In fact, Louis’ entire flat is very nice. Harry wonders what he does for a living. He’ll have to ask later.)

 

It’s very large and roomy, which is awesome because Harry’s own shower is much too cramped for two people to fit comfortably.

 

Louis ushers Harry underneath the water and proceeds to clean the come off of his face and hair. They take turns washing each other’s bodies with strawberry-scented body wash and a loofa, spending a lot of time massaging each other’s backs. After that they do shampoo, conditioner, and face wash quickly. When one of them is soaping up the other stands underneath the spray of the water, and then they’ll switch. It’s a nice system. (So nice, in fact, that Harry thinks he could do this every day, make a routine out of it. He has to push the thought from his mind as forcefully as he can. This is why he doesn’t do one-night stands… he’s afraid of getting too attached.)

 

At the end of it the stand underneath the steady stream of warm water together, hugging and swaying. Harry likes this, likes this a lot, pressed up against Louis all snuggly and warm, his face in his neck, arms around his back, feeling grounded and loved. He thinks it’s unusual for a one-night stand and yet it feels so normal, so comfortable, so… expected and amazing nonetheless.

 

Yep. He is _definitely_ too sentimental for sleeping around.

 

Louis turns the faucet off, still wrapped up in Harry and Harry still wrapped up in him, and opens the shower door to reach outside for a towel. He dries the glistening drops of water off of Harry’s milky white skin, encompassing the towel around him at the end and squeezing him in a hug. Again, Harry thinks that he likes this, likes being taken care of. Likes feeling safe and warm and adored. Likes Louis looking into his eyes like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

 

Louis dries himself off quicker than with Harry and much less thoroughly, because Harry is shivering in the cold air conditioning.

 

Shivering is much better than the alternative: sweating in the sweltering heat back at his flat, with Niall probably complaining about his nakedness again. Harry is very, very grateful for the air conditioning. He thanks Louis all the way back to his room, even as they crawl into bed together, towels discarded on the chair in the corner.

 

“Tell me something,” Harry whispers once they’re settled in, laying on their sides facing each other, legs all tangled together, clinging to each other. They’re sharing the same pillow, so close that all they can see is the other’s eyes—everything else is out of focus. It’s another bullet-point to add to the list of things that have happened this night that are much too intimate for a one-night stand.

 

“What do you want to hear?”

 

“About you. A story, anything. Your thoughts.”

 

“Hmmm,” Louis hums, pulling the duvet over them a little higher, so that it’s covering everything below their necks. He returns his hand to Harry’s hip and squeezes teasingly. “Well… right now I’m thinking about how lovely you are.”

 

Harry smiles—he can’t help it, can’t contain it—and closes the few centimeters between them to press his lips against Louis’ sweetly.

 

They end up talking for hours, until the sun comes up, illuminating the room in golden light through the cracks in the blinds. The scintillations are beautiful on Louis’ skin, ethereal and everlasting. By then they’re completely exhausted from the long day and the long night. Harry’s mind replays all the new information he has learned about Louis in the span of a few short hours, all about his friends and his family, the things he likes, the things he doesn’t, and on and on and on. Louis now knows the same about Harry, as they had gone back and forth to share equally, one of them speaking at a time and the other just listening, smiling sweetly and softly.

 

When the both of them physically cannot stay awake any longer they fall asleep like that, curled up together, in each other’s arms. Fucked out and sober, clean from the shower, exhausted from the night’s events.

 

It’s the best sleep either of them has had in a long, long time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART III. _

 

 

 

 

Harry wakes up early even though he’s exhausted after only three hours of sleep. It’s a quarter after eight, the time he usually wakes up for work, and he figures his body’s clock is quite rigid if he can’t even sleep in after a night as exhausting (and exciting) as last night.

 

He pulls himself out of bed anyways, out of Louis’ arms, and out of the warm sheets regretfully. As he shuffles across the room he finds his bum to be quiet sore, in that really good way that he wants to feel every morning. He blushes and literally smacks himself in the head, trying to get the thoughts away. _One night and nothing more._

 

He thinks he’ll make himself some coffee and give Louis a few more hours to sleep before he begins making breakfast. He imagines the meal they’ll share—fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast with cherry jam. Imagines eating with Louis in the dining room, their ankles hooked below the table, everything happy and sunny and warm. Imagines packing his things, kissing him goodbye.

 

Never seeing him again.

 

Harry frowns, pushes the thought to the back of his mind, and decides to search around Louis’ room for something to wear. He hopes Louis doesn’t mind.

 

Louis’ room is a bit of a mess, and now that Harry isn’t as lustful as desperate as he was last night, he has a chance to look around. There’s a very nice walk-in closet in the corner of the room, which is unusual for the flats around here, so Harry peaks his head in curiously. His eyes immediately land on a very large, very pretty lavender sweater folded up on the middle shelf. He picks it up, surprised at its softness, experimentally rubbing it against his skin before he pulls it on. It’s cozy and warm and he never wants to take it off. He finds a clean pair of boxers and pulls them on, feeling stupid for not thinking ahead when he left his own flat yesterday.

 

Harry heads to the kitchen to roam around the cupboards for something to do. He plans out the breakfast he’ll cook in a few hours and then makes a cup of tea because he couldn’t find any coffee, and then he curls up by the window and gazes at the city streets, daydreaming. He stays like this for hours.

 

At eleven he begins cooking, starting with the bacon and then working on frying eggs as the bacon cools, simultaneously heating up frozen sausages in the microwave. He’s placing bread in the toaster when he hears keys jingling in the door to the flat.

 

Harry is startled, caught off guard. He thought Louis was in bed? Who else would have keys to his flat? Does he have a roommate Harry doesn’t know about? Harry only saw one bedroom. Maybe it’s… Louis’ boyfriend that Harry didn’t know about until just now?

 

Is Harry the other woman?

 

Oh God.

 

The door swings open before Harry can think to do anything, like jump out the window or at least put some trousers on. He stands there, stunned, a piece of wholegrain bread in his hands, as someone steps inside.

 

“Who’re you?” A tiny voice asks from the doorway.

 

Harry stands there in shock as a cluster of little kids floods inside. _What the…_ he thinks, before then seeing two older girls come inside as well. “Um…”

 

The girl with the blonde hair looks up sharply, her face as startled as Harry feels. Her mouth falls open and she gapes at him. One of the kids toddles over to the couch and jumps up onto the cushion, and then the other follows closely behind. Everyone else is silent and completely still.

 

A million thoughts are swirling in his head, so he stands there, startled and confused. The girl with the dyed hair must catch up before he does because he features of bewilderment soon morph into features of anger.

 

“Fizz, will you wait with the kids outside? I need to talk to Louis,” she says tersely, if not politely, jaw set tensely. She glares daggers at Harry as she marches down the hall. Harry watches as the other girl with the long brown hair gathers up the little ones and ushers them outside, shutting the door behind her with a noisy thud.

 

Still petrified, Harry stands in the kitchen, staring at the breakfast he was in the process of making, his legs and feet completely bare. The sound of harsh reprimands from down the hall in Louis’ room are muffled but apparent. He catches phrases like _what are you doing_ and _WHAT were you THINKING_ and _SERIOUSLY, Louis?_

 

There’s the sound of a door swinging open and slamming closed, followed by footsteps down the hall.

 

“Calm down, Lottie, everything is fine.”

 

The two enter the kitchen to find Harry still standing there, and in that moment he sees a striking yet subtle resemblance, and after a long moment of confusion it finally makes sense. They must be siblings.

 

“Harry!” The wonderful man from last night chirps, voice fluttery and feather-light. Wispy and sleep-ridden, too. So lovely, Harry could listen to it for hours.

 

Harry manages a tentative wave of his hand in greeting, smiling weakly.

 

“Sorry,” Louis apologizes, coming closer. “I forgot my family was visiting today. I was uh, you know, a little preoccupied last night.”

 

“Louis!” The girl shrieks, smacking the back of his neck in warning.

 

He laughs a little uncomfortably, looking around the kitchen. Harry is still frozen and wishing he had thought to put on a pair of joggers. God, this is awkward.

 

“Oh, you did make breakfast!”

 

“I said I would,” Harry mumbles, still very unsure of what to do. “Um, I should go…”

 

The girl—Lottie—doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face conveys she wholeheartedly agrees. (She’s scowling, and glaring at Harry like he’s the scum of the earth. Which, okay. He’s her brother’s one-night stand who is still here in the morning when the little siblings come over... So the hatred is warranted. Harry feels pretty shitty. And, like. Dirty. It’s just all around not an ideal situation.)

 

“Yeah—okay,” Louis says, moving out of the way so Harry can exit the kitchen. He’s halfway down the hall when he realizes Louis is following him. When they get back to the bedroom, Louis closes the door behind them.

 

Harry picks up his jeans from the floor nowhere near the bed, blushing as remnants of last night flood his mind, and wriggles them on. This takes a while, since they’re very tight and he’s in no mood for jeans. Louis watches him the whole time.

 

“Sorry about, um-“ Harry begins when he’s searching the room for his shirt, not finding it anywhere. When did he even take it off? Was it before they got into the bedroom last night? Oh God, is it in the hallway or something?

 

“No, it’s my fault,” Louis interjects.

 

Harry isn’t going to argue with that, only he wants to take at least part of the blame for this awkward morning encounter because it’s his fault for not following one-night-stand etiquette: sex, sleep, and sprint the hell out of there before the other person wakes up in order to avoid situations exactly like this one.

 

“Have you seen my shirt, by chance?” Harry asks, standing helplessly, still in Louis’ jumper.

 

“Oh! Umm, no…” Together they search around the room, not finding the sheer black top Harry had carelessly thrown off last night. Harry is really itching to leave, and he would have bolted out of the stifled, awkward air already if it wasn’t for his missing shirt.

 

“Uhh, you know what, I can just-“ he starts peeling off the jumper, resigned to leaving Louis’ flat in shirtless embarrassment. He’ll have to leave the country after this—he can never show his face in London or the U.K. in general after this. Oh God. The humiliation he feels his suffocating.

 

But a warm hand is tugging on his arm. The touch is both galvanizing and calming at the same time. How is that even possible?

 

“How about we trade?” Louis suggests shrilly, a bit frantic. “Keep the jumper, okay?”

 

“Um, okay.” Harry shoves his arm through the sleeve again and tucks the sweater back down to cover his torso. They stand there and stare at each other, the gracelessness really catching up to the both of them.

 

Louis leads them out of the bedroom and down the hall, to the tiny living room where the rest of his siblings are located. The older girls fall silent when they enter but the little ones continue playing loudly. Harry nearly runs across the room, no time for conversation, and slips out the door. Louis follows him out, and closes the door tightly behind him.

 

“Sorry this is so awful,” Louis apologizes, leaning with his back against the door.

 

“You have a lovely family,” Harry compliments, shuffling down a few steps, lingering. Like this, Louis is for once a few inches taller than him.

 

“Thanks.” He plays with the hem of his t-shirt. “I had fun last night.”

 

“Me too,” Harry agrees, backing away now, hesitantly. The heat of the mid-morning is already catching up to him, and he can feel the sweat beginning to build on his lower back. He wishes he could stay in the air conditioning forever. “Thanks for the jumper.”

 

“Thanks for the top.”

 

“Thanks for the air conditioning.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Louis breathes, laughing slightly. “You can always count on my flat being cold year-round, meaning it’s fucking frigid in the winter…”

 

Harry laughs, thinking about how hot his flat is in the summer, yet how cozy in the winter…

 

“Okay… bye…” God, it’s so awkward, but for some reason he doesn’t want to leave. Especially because he knows this’ll be the last time he sees this beautiful creature…

 

Louis releases an arm from behind his back to wave. “Bye!”

 

Harry shuffles down the last of the steps, then keeps going. He’s almost out of sight when he turns around again out of pure impulse.

 

“You know,” he says slowly, and the reason he says this must be nothing but the stupid overbearing heat because there is no logical reason why he would say this, “my flat may be really hot right now, but it’s warm in the winter…”

 

Louis’ laugh is loud and unburdened. Again it sounds like angels’ bells pealing.

 

“I just might have to take you up on that offer.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART IV. _

 

 

 

 

When Harry gets home, he collapses on his bed, groaning, and curls up into a ball. Memories of this morning suffocate him, and he visibly cringes, berating himself for the awkward embarrassment of everything that happened today.

 

It’s still hot, really fucking hot, but the meteorologists on the news say the heat wave is almost over. Harry thanks all the stars in the sky, while simultaneously cursing his flat for not having air conditioning.

 

He gets too hot almost immediately upon collapsing on the bed so he peels off Louis’ warm, heavy jumper and brings it to his nose, breathing in the scent of his own sweat mixed with unfamiliar laundry detergent.

 

That’s how he falls asleep, and that’s how Niall finds him, hours later.

 

“So how was your night?” Niall asks over dinner, his voice suggestive and teasing, both of them sitting at the kitchen table in only their boxers, sweat dripping down their skin.

 

Harry shoves a slice of grilled apricot into his mouth, thinking of the previous night and all it entailed. He swallows, sighs, and then rests his head on the cool wood of the table. Right now his recollection of last night feels like a hazy fever-dream.

 

“Life-changing,” he mumbles wistfully, dejectedly.

 

Niall only laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART V. _

 

 

 

 

The summer comes and goes.

 

Harry doesn’t see Louis again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART VI. _

 

 

 

 

In its chilly autumnal breezes and lovely overcast days, fall brings relief to London. Like a gift Harry has been waiting to open for too long, he unwraps the balmy days and basks in their beauty, spending as much time outside as possible. He rides his bicycle to work every morning instead of taking the tube, taking his time and breathing in the frosty October mornings.

 

At the office he insists they open the windows, and as Harry and the other designers sketch and prod at different obscure fabrics, they listen to the euphony of the city outside. Through the open windows the breeze tumbles in and settles, and Harry sits on the floor to lean against the wall as he hand-stitches the intricate design on his current project.

 

On the way home he stops in a strange little bookstore he has never visited before. Inside he browses the aisles for a long while, running his fingertips along the spines of the books in the literature section, picking up the ones he finds interesting. He carries the stack to the front and when the cashier smiles at him, Harry feels himself struggle to smile back.

 

It’s just one of those days, Harry thinks, as he peddles the long way back to his flat. When he gets there he slips into the flat and finds it empty—Niall out with his friends again, at the pub singing like he always does on Wednesday nights. Harry sets the plastic bag of books on the kitchen counter for later and slouches off to the bathroom for a warm shower. When the water caresses his skin he sighs heavily and curls his arms around himself.

 

It’s just one of those days… Just one of those days when he feels as if everyone else around him is swaddled up in love, and he’s the odd man out. Alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART VII. _

 

 

 

 

Harry thinks about Louis a lot more than he should. Considering they spent all of fourteen hours or so together. Months ago. Ages ago.

 

He tries to get out and date—he really truly does try. Even Niall sees he’s making an effort to meet people, to say yes when people ask him out, to give others a chance. But something usually goes wrong, and if nothing goes wrong then Harry feels deeply unsettled. Every time he asks himself why so-and-so isn’t right for him (“he’s nice, he’s kind, he’s fit, he’s smart, he’s ambitious, etc. etc. etc. So why don’t I like him?”) he always finds himself at the same conclusion:

 

He isn’t Louis.

 

And, okay. Maybe Harry is being ridiculous. Maybe after all these months he is remembering that summer night incorrectly and has created an image in his mind of the impossibly perfect guy, and labeled this impossibility _Louis_. He’s certain his standards are hopelessly high. He’s convinced he’ll never find anyone, ever. He nearly resigns himself to living the rest of his life alone and terribly lonely.

 

So when Harry begins to believe he will never find anyone, the universe proves him wrong in the best way possible.

 

The universe brings him Louis.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART VIII. _

 

 

 

 

In the meantime, Harry buries himself in his work. He cranks out a million new pieces, trousers and blazers and jumpers and blouses, and even three entire evening gowns despite the fact the he only ever really produces men’s fashion. He takes his work home with him, quite literally toting fabrics and threads and buttons home with him, working for hours at the tiny table in the junction between kitchen and living room. He works on weekdays and weekends, days and nights, no matter the time or place, he’s either sketching or cutting or sewing.

 

By the end of January his boss has noticed a positive change in Harry’s work ethic, with Harry’s now fully completed menswear collection.

 

“Is everything alright?” She asks as they head across the street for early-morning pastries and coffee.

 

“Mm?” Harry asks, completely missing what she had said.

 

His boss repeats the question, smiling softly but looking at him oddly. Harry’s gotten lucky with her as his boss, he thinks, because she’s so kind and understanding. Really, she has no reason to be upset with him because in the past few months he has truly created some of his best work since he began his career a few years ago. She has no reason to reprimand him aside from how he’s always so spacey nowadays. So out of it.

 

Despite her warm, caring concern, Harry is startled by her question. He doesn’t know how to answer it.

 

(How can he say anything about the menswear he just created when the entire line is practically made for just one person in mind?

 

Harry swears he didn’t mean for Louis to become his muse.)

 

“’m fine,” he mumbles quietly, pulling his thumbnail between his teeth and chewing on it uncomfortably.

 

It’s always a lie, isn’t it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART IX. _

 

 

 

 

It goes like this: heavy sky, gusty wind, freezing rain. Clouds hanging weightily over the city, not a star in sight. Ice and thick water drops raining down on him, soaking through his clothes until he’s chilled to the bone. The wind not helping, rushing the ice and rain sideways, rendering his umbrella useless. Harry walks. In the rain, the wind, and the ice, Harry walks.

 

His jeans are soaked, thick gray jumper already sopping wet. His suede boots are full of water and completely ruined; with every step it feels as though he is stepping straight into the icy puddles on the side of the street.

 

December brought freezing rain almost constantly. When Harry made the short trip home from work to his flat late every night, he found his travels were exceedingly arduous in the winter months. His jeans were always soaked straight to his skin by the time he got home, hair drenched despite his umbrella because the gusting wind always blew the rain sideways, rendering his umbrella useless. As soon as he got home he would strip in the foyer of his flat so as not to get water all over the place (Niall was usually already asleep by the time he got home so there was no need to be modest), and then run to the shower to stand underneath the hot spray until his bones finally warmed enough for him to step out and bundle up in his pajamas and the duvet. At night he turned the heat up to a comfortable, cozy temperature, and would always fall asleep curled up with his face pressed to his pillow.

 

The seasonal change in temperature was pleasant despite the cold. Harry had always loved winter, and yet there was one aspect that always bugged him…

 

It was in the winter months that he was at his loneliest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART X. _

 

 

 

 

Harry’s at the tattoo parlor above the pub he frequents, getting the shading done on a gigantic bee tattoo on his forearm. By now, after his numerous tattoos, he’s used to the constant stinging pain and barely notices it. That, and the parlor has a makeshift bar full of strong alcohol for customers. He feels wonderfully buzzed, warmth spreading through the blood in his veins and making Harry feel all tingly inside.

 

Footsteps rush up the stairs, and someone steps inside.

 

Harry recognizes him before he even takes his hood off.

 

“It’s fucking freezing out there,” the caramel voice chimes, and even though his words are vulgar his voice is feather-light.

 

The tattoo artist sets the pen down and gets up to greet the man at the top of the stairs in a loud, enthusiastic reunion that includes hugging and laughing and lots of use of the word _mate_. Yet even in the whirlwind of chaos he makes eye contact with him.

 

“Harry,” Louis says, surprised, once the reunion is over.

 

Harry waves with his free hand. “Hi,” he says meekly, stomach churning with butterflies. He’s bewildered that Louis even remembers his name. The spent all of fourteen hours together (albeit fourteen very _memorable_ hours) and that was months ago. Ages ago.

 

“You lads know each other?” The tattoo artist asks, curious. He picks up the pen again and resumes working on the bee.

 

“Er- yeah…” Harry mumbles, feeling his palms get sweaty and his face heat up in a probably-noticeable blush.

 

Louis just laughs, heading over to the bar to get himself a drink. Harry watches as he pours an overflowing shot of alcohol into a glass of ice. Louis is wearing expensive-looking joggers, black trainers, and a winter coat. His auburn hair is glistening with rain and it looks very pretty.

 

“How’s work going?”

 

Harry quickly looks away from Louis, a bit startled. “Huh?”

 

“I asked how your fashion designing has been going,” the tattoo artist chuckles, saying _fashion designing_ with a bit of humor like he can’t believe it’s Harry’s actual career. Harry’s pretty sure the guy isn’t trying to be rude, seeing as humor is the standard response to Harry’s career, but it’s annoying nonetheless.

 

“Oh. Good,” he answers vaguely, glancing back at Louis to find the man staring at him. He quickly looks down to his bee tattoo and adds, “I finally finished my 2018 collection.” He doesn’t add that the entire line of menswear is designed for one specific person in mind. One specific person who may or may not be in the room right now, leaning with his back against the wall. Gazing at Harry intently.

 

“Congrats. Anything you can show me?”

 

“Ummm,” Harry pulls out his phone with his right hand, his other arm still in captivity, and searches through his photo album for pictures of the clothing he has produced. He shows the tattoo artist a few pieces.

 

“These are sick, mate,” he compliments, shading in the tattoo without even really looking at it. Harry hopes he doesn’t mess up.

 

“I wanna see,” Louis pipes up from his spot against the wall. The tattoo artist hands Harry’s phone to the man who has crossed the room to stand beside them. Louis swipes through the pictures for a moment, observing them quietly. When he hands the phone back he smiles and says, “I like these. I would wear some of this.”

 

“Thanks,” Harry says, never one for accepting compliments. They make his stomach swirl, especially coming from someone like Louis. Harry has a moment of insanity when his mind betrays him and flashes back to the night they spent together, and all the praises Louis had said to him when they were fucking…

 

“A lot of that would look good on you,” the tattoo artist points out matter-of-factly, speaking to Louis. When the words sink in Harry resists the urge to cover his face. Because it’s not just that the line would look good on Louis… the entire collection was _made for him_. “Don’t you think, Harry?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry squeaks, pocketing his phone and swallowing nervously. He takes a chance and peaks up at Louis to find him biting his lip to keep a smile at bay. He looks _fond_.

 

The three of them make polite small-talk after that, discussing typical, platitudinous topics like sports and the weather.

 

“I swear, it’s like my flat doesn’t even _have_ heating.”

 

(Harry tries very hard not to think about Louis bundled up underneath the duvet back at his own flat, alone.)

 

“Yeah, but you’re a freeze-baby, Lou. I’m sure it isn’t that bad.”

 

(Okay, why is the tattoo artist calling Louis ‘Lou’? Surely they must not be _that_ good of friends. Harry sighs internally. He wishes he was familiar enough with Louis to call him a nickname…)

 

As it turns out, Louis isn’t here for a tattoo. Actually, he’s just here for the free alcohol. The tattoo artist smacks him on the arm when Louis admits that little tidbit.

 

Okay, so he’s just sitting on the stool next to Harry, very close to Harry, for essentially no reason now. Because his glass is empty but he’s not getting up for another one. They’re having a normal conversation about normal things. Definitely not flirting. Maybe.

 

“How’s your family?” Harry asks, when the tattoo artist is wiping the tattoo with antiseptic. It stings more than the actual tattoo. Like, really, it hurts so badly he has to grit his teeth.

 

Louis pats him on the arm, obviously noticing his pain. “They’re good. The little ones keep asking about you.”

 

“Shit,” Harry mumbles, feeling mortified all over again. Every time he thinks about that morning, he can’t help but cringe. “Do they really?”

 

“Yeah, they do, and shit is right. How am I supposed to explain to them that they’re never going to see you again?”

 

“Right.” Harry tries not to sound hurt. Louis seems not to notice. Of course he doesn’t. It was a one-night stand. Clearly. Obviously.

 

“Lottie was so pissed at me though. She didn’t talk to me for like a week.”

 

“The girl with the silver hair?” Harry asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Remembering how angry the girl had been, Harry winces. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

 

“It’s okay, not your fault. Still sad you didn’t get to have breakfast with me though.”

 

Harry is quite startled at that admission. He stares at Louis for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Oh, erm- same,” he finally settles for.

 

They’re quiet for a few minutes, only the sound of the radio in the background to break up the silence. When Harry’s tattoo is all bandaged up the tattoo artist tells him he’s free to go. When Harry stands up, Louis stands up too.

 

Harry bundles up in his coat, scarf, and beanie before thanking the tattoo artist. He says goodbye and Louis does too. Okay. So this is a thing that’s happening.

 

Harry walks down the stairs to the pub, and then makes his way through the crowd to the door, all the while with Louis trailing close behind. When they’re outside in the wind and the rain, Louis asks, “does the offer of your flat still stand?”

 

Shit. Very forward. Unless he’s reading the situation wrong? No, he doesn’t think he is. Louis is asking for exactly what Harry thinks he’s asking for. Okay. Harry can do this.

 

“Um… yeah…”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

Harry bites his lip, standing still as the harsh winter wind blows straight through him. Louis is standing in front of him, shivering. Literally, teeth-chattering. And he said his flat is cold…

 

Harry takes a deep breath. “What exactly do you want?”

 

Louis smiles. “To come home with you. If the offer still stands, that is. If not, just forget I ever said anything—I’ll run this way and you can go that way and we’ll never see each other ever again.”

 

His heart melts a little, even in the glacial weather. “Come home with me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART XI. _

 

 

 

 

When they get back to Harry’s flat, drenched from the rain and dripping in the doorway, Niall is there. As soon as he sees Louis, he gets up from the couch and starts putting his coat on.

 

“What the fuck, Harry. Gross. Seriously. I’m leaving,” Niall groans, grabbing his keys and his phone. As he brushes past them and out the door, he pats Harry on the bum and tells him to _have fun_. The door closes behind him and Louis and Harry are left to stare at each other amusedly.

 

“So how have you been?” Louis asks, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, smiling slightly.

 

“Gooood,” Harry drawls, reaching forward to slip Louis’ coat off his shoulders and help him completely out of it. He hangs it up in the closet beside his own. “And yourself?”

 

Louis chuckles, mimicking Harry as he responds, “gooood.”

 

“I’m glad.”

 

They look at each other a little weirdly. Louis shivers.

 

“Wanna shower?”

 

Louis quirks a brow. “Together?”

 

“If… you want..?”

 

“Alright-y then, mister. Let’s get to it.”

 

They kiss in the bathroom as they take each other’s clothes off. Louis’ cold hands make Harry’s skin tingle with warmth. He holds Louis’ hands in his own to warm them up as they kiss.

 

“You’re wearing lingerie,” Louis observes matter-of-factly as he unbuttons Harry’s jeans and slides them down his hips and bum.

 

“Oh, shit, right. Forgot about that,” Harry mutters meekly, feeling dizzy. Looking away because he’s embarrassed. He hadn’t expected anyone to see, but here he is, standing in front of Louis wearing lacey lavender panties.

 

“Do you do this a lot?” Louis asks, hooking his thumbs underneath the lace.

 

“Sometimes,” Harry admits quietly, and he had been half-expecting Louis to call him a freak and then run out the door away from Harry forever. But now he realizes that he didn’t have anything to worry about in the first place. Louis is kind and understanding and not judgmental. There’s no way he would run out on Harry just for wearing lingerie.

 

“Do you feel good in them?”

 

Harry nods, still afraid to meet Louis’ eyes.

 

“That’s good, because you should. You look very beautiful,” Louis assures, tilting Harry’s head up by his chin until their eyes meet. Then he kisses him on the cheek.

 

“Thanks,” Harry squeaks, startled but relieved all at once. There’s a warm heat building up in the middle of his chest, right in the place of his heart, and it should frighten Harry. But it doesn’t, not really, this swelling feeling of desire and love. It’s comforting and calming. When Harry looks over at Louis he feels pleasantly warm.

 

They step out of the rest of their clothes, using each other for balance and support. All the while Harry searches for something to say that will probe Louis for answers on what exactly they’re doing right now… Like, are they just fucking? What exactly is going on? What does Louis expect from him? Does it align with Harry’s own wants as well?

 

These confusing questions propel Harry to admit “I kinda, um, missed you,” as he steps into the shower behind Louis. Underneath the hot water they embrace. There isn’t much room in the cramped shower to do anything else but cling to each other.

 

“Yeah? Me too. Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Louis declares over the rushing water, words said between kisses on Harry’s neck.

 

Harry laughs, feeling relieved. He really isn’t made for one-night stands and apparently Louis isn’t either. This is a good thing, because Harry has an unfamiliar feeling in his chest and it feels like he wants this to last more than just one more night.

 

The shower is smaller than the one in Louis’ flat, so they’re squished in together and there’s no way to stand without touching each other. As it turns out, this isn’t much of a problem. In fact, Harry latches onto Louis and refuses to let go.

 

They fuck in the shower, mutual blowjobs—a pretty difficult task in the small space. By the time they turn the faucet off, Harry’s knees are sore from the tile floor and he’s ready for round two. They dry each other off like they did that one night so many months ago, and then they run across the hall to Harry’s room to dive beneath the covers. They kiss for a long, long time, simply content to be wrapped up in each other.

 

“Why does it feel like I’ve known you for years?” Harry asks quietly when Louis is kissing down his tummy.

 

“Maybe we knew each other in a past life,” Louis whispers conspiratorially, widening his eyes. “Maybe we were _lovers_.”

 

It’s supposed to be a joke but when he says the words out loud, they hang heavy in the air and to Harry they hold so much significance. It makes sense, and he believes it. They must’ve known each other before, in a past life. They must’ve been lovers, and that’s why they feel so close to each other now. The thought is more comforting than expected… the fact that their souls will end up together, over and over again, through an infinite, endless amount of lifetimes. The notion that they are meant for each other, made to be together, crafted from the same stardust. Destined, fated. Intended for each other and only each other.

 

Harry closes his eyes and feels his heart pounding in his chest, the warm thud somehow a steady, tranquil comfort. There’s a theory that when you meet your soulmate, you don’t feel nervous or anxious or even like you have butterflies or fireworks inside of you. Instead, you feel calm. At peace.

 

(In honest truth, Harry feels that way with Louis. As much as he can in the short time they’ve spent together.

 

But sometimes you just know.)

 

“How do you want to do this?” Louis asks, in between nibbling at the insides of Harry’s thighs. And Harry’s heart is _calm, calm, calm_.

 

Harry props himself up on his elbows to look at Louis. “How do _you_ want to do this? We did it my way last time.”

 

“Yeah, but I wanna take care of you.”

 

“Well I want to take care of _you_ ,” Harry challenges, running his fingers through Louis’ hair.

 

Louis narrows his eyes and bites at Harry’s thigh, hard enough to leave a mark. Harry flinches, squeezes his eyes shut, and moans all the same. When he looks at Louis again he finds him smirking, clearly self-satisfied by Harry’s reaction.

 

“Tell me what you want,” Louis says, a little demanding.

 

Harry sighs and leans back until he’s lying on his back again. He lifts his arms above his head and crosses them at the wrists before peaking down at Louis. “Do what you want with me. That’s what I want you to do.”

 

“Harry…” Louis warns, but Harry stubbornly refuses to move. So he gently kisses him, and Harry kisses back but keeps his arms above his head in a display of submission. What he really, truly wants, but is too shy to admit to, is to be tied up, bound helpless, and fucked relentlessly. So instead Harry refuses to take charge, hoping Louis will follow through.

 

After a while of nothing but kissing, Harry realizes Louis isn’t going to do anything unless Harry makes the first move, so he rolls his hips forward slowly, again and again until Louis grinds back. It feels so, so good, and so, _so_ not enough. Yet even just the thought of their bodies together, just skin on beautiful skin, arouses Harry. He’s been fantasizing about this moment for months now, and it feels incredible to finally be experiencing it.

 

Louis grips his hips and pushes them down to the mattress with a firm hold, grinding harder but stopping Harry from moving, exactly like Harry wants. Harry is moaning like crazy, just breathy little groans that are wholly involuntary but spur Louis on.

 

Aside from moaning, and breathing heavily, they don’t make any other noises. They don’t speak like they did last time, incessantly praising each other through their words. This time, only the sounds of their pleasure and of the sheets sliding against each other fill the room. Aside from this strange symphony they are silent.

 

Harry likes it, maybe even more than the verbal praise. Because it doesn’t always need to be spoken to be true. As he kisses all over Louis’ face and neck, he thinks that this is a silent way of admiration. They kiss and rut against each other and Harry keeps his hands above his head and Louis keeps his legs tangled in Harry’s and everything is as it should be. Everything is righted.

 

Alone they are normal people but together they are angels. Together they are souls—soul fluttering on scraping, glistening soul. Like butterfly wings.

 

He worships Louis in the soundless, hushed spaces between breaths, and it is beautiful. It is beautiful and peaceful and it is everything. It is everything.

 

Harry watches as Louis opens himself up with his fingers, using the lube he found when he searched through Harry’s nightstand. He isn’t even trying to put on a show but he looks so sexy anyways, and Harry watches in a blissed-out haze. His skin is soft and smooth, his hair almost dry from after their shower. Lips parted, tiny little moans escaping from his lungs, fluttering up his throat.

 

When he’s ready he strokes Harry a few times and slides a condom on him. Then he lifts himself up and Harry waits patiently, body pulsing with pleasure, as Louis slowly sits back on him. They stay still for a long, long time, just soaking each other in and admiring each other.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Louis whispers into the muted air, leaning down to kiss the corner of his lips, and then his eyelashes.

 

“So are you,” Harry breathes, the first words he has spoken in a while. The meaning is heavy but they feel light and easy in the air.

 

Louis kisses him one last, long time, licking into Harry’s mouth sweetly, before pulling back and sitting up straight. He puts his arms behind him, hands resting on Harry’s thighs, and arches his back before he lifts himself up so, so slowly.

 

And okay, wow. Harry may be sex-drunk and completely enamored by this man who is practically a stranger, but… there is just something about him that is so special. Like, when Harry looks at him he feels like the sun has come out after days of clouds and rain.

 

Yes, Louis is like sunshine on his skin. Warm and soft and comfortable. He is the beauty of summer and all its benefits. He is happiness personified.

 

Louis sinks back down with a sigh. Harry wiggles his hips to make him laugh, and he does. His laugh sounds like little bells chiming. It’s a beautiful sound, it really is, and Harry wants to hear it again and again. So he retrieves his hands from above his head and reaches forward to unexpectedly tickle Louis’ hips.

 

Louis squawks indignantly but laughs all the same. This leads to a full-blown tickle fight full of giggles and laughter, right in the middle of a very intimate moment. In fact, Harry is still inside Louis, and every time either one of them moves their hips a little too much, the other one groans with pleasure.

 

“Okay, okay, I surrender!” Harry squeaks, breathless, as Louis pins his hands above his head.

 

“I win,” Louis announces cheekily. He rocks backwards and the intimate moment is restored, yet they feel closer together than before.

 

(Harry is so, so in love with the fact that he and Louis can joke around and laugh in the middle of having sex. He’s never had a relationship where he could do that before, and he thinks about how lucky he’s gotten with Louis. Then he has to close his eyes and thank the stars and the universe because he really, really feels like this is something special.)

 

When Harry feels himself teetering on the edge, he reaches out and strokes Louis to bring him closer, trying to get them to come at the same time. Louis keens, squeezing his eyes shut and arching his back, fucking himself harder on Harry and thus more sloppily, his movements stuttered and frantic, but above all passionate.

 

The simple knowledge that Louis is using Harry’s body to get himself off is enough to send Harry helplessly careening over the edge. He comes hard, stars obscuring his vision, so he shuts his eyes tight and lets the intense, unstoppable pleasure wash over him in suffocating waves of bliss. He has no recollection of Louis’ orgasm, as he is already too far gone to remember anything after his own release.

 

“Oh my god,” Louis groans, collapsing forward onto Harry’s chest. They stay there for a long while before Louis gently lifts himself up and detaches them. Harry moans at both the uncomfortable feeling and the loss of contact, but is content once Louis presses up against him again.

 

“So good,” Harry whispers, as Louis snuggles into his side and nudges his way to Harry’s armpit, so that Harry’s arm is wrapped loosely around him. “So, so good. I wanna do that forever.”

 

“We can,” Louis assures quietly, delicately squeezing Harry’s hip.

 

They fall asleep curled around each other, naked but bundled up with blankets as they rain and wind outside lashes out against the windows. Louis makes himself small against Harry’s chest, his head barely peaking out above the duvet. His hands—perpetually cold—are pressed to Harry’s tummy.

 

Their legs are entangled just as their soft, sleepy breaths intertwine in the air. Louis’ hands are freezing and Harry’s breathing turns to snores but neither one of them cares.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART XII. _

 

 

 

 

They wake up just as they fell asleep: like one soul cut in two, rejoined. Two halves of one whole… one soul.

 

Harry is first to open his eyes. When he does, and his sight lands on Louis sleeping soundly in his arms, he feels calm. And for the first time in months, he does not feel lonely.

 

Louis wakes up in a minute because Harry has been rustling around, trying to regain blood flow to the arm he has resting below Louis. He opens one eye, peering up at Harry.

 

“’Morning…”

 

Harry looks down at him, at his cute face which is smushed and sleep-ridden. The words slip out easily and without any thought.

 

“It’s for you. My 2018 collection.”

 

“What?” Louis asks, not looking shocked or startled or anything, just a bit confused and sleepy.

 

“I designed over fifty pieces in the last few months and they’re all for you. Well, maybe not the dresses, but you’d look good in them too. You’d look good in anything,” Harry admits, and it feels good to get it off of his chest after months of his coworkers asking why he’s suddenly designing so many beautiful pieces, never stopping sketching or sewing.

 

“Oh,” Louis breathes. “Will you show them to me sometime?”

 

“Of course. Once we reproduce them you can have the originals. They’re meant for you, anyways.”

 

Louis leans in and kisses Harry’s jaw. “Good. Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART XIII. _

 

 

 

 

Breakfast together is peaceful, lovely, and uninterrupted.

 

They discuss who they are and what they want from each other, until they’re on the same page. Neither one of them wants to fuck around; they may be young but they’re ready to settle down. They decide to take it slow and make plans to go on a date the following weekend. Harry promises to show Louis his creations sometime soon, maybe on the second date if the first goes well.

 

They’re both pretty confident the first date will go well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ PART XIV. _

 

 

 

 

(It does.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! All comments are appreciated. <3
> 
> [Reblog the fic post](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/post/169049052584/i-still-find-you-lovely-by-angelichl-reason-37) and come say hi :)


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